


TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 Fills

by ajkal2



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Forehead Touching, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Job Interview, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Magical Healing Cat Cuddles, Manipulative Elias Bouchard, More tags as we go!, Sickfic, Statement Withdrawal (The Magnus Archives), TMAHCweek, Touch-Starved, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, not very polished but eh its just some prompt fills, tw: British Rail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: Fills for the tumblr TMA hurt/comfort week! Prompts are listed below - I missed Monday, but will probably come back and write something short for it at some point.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, past Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims - Relationship
Comments: 42
Kudos: 218





	1. Shaky Hands/Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Thought this would be fun to try out! I'll be writing a short thing for each prompt on each day, and posting it the same day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8/24 Monday Self-worth Issues ♢ Pretend ♢ Shaky hands

Martin’s hands are shaking. He tucks them under his thighs, hoping it passes for normal pre-interview jitters.

God, he shouldn’t be here. He should be- down the chippy, again, asking if they have anything- or well. He should be in sixth form, like all his mates. But that’s not really an option, so instead he’s in bloody _London._

Everyone here is older than him. Probably _actual_ college graduates. They’re all wearing nice things as well, smart shirts, not Lidl ones. His slacks used to be his Dad’s, and that was enough to tighten his Mum’s lips. That’s why she didn’t wish him luck, probably.

Or she knew that he’d lied, and that he was likely to- get arrested, maybe? Is he breaking the law? Is it- fraud, or something, what he’s done?

He doesn’t actually know. The panic and fear curled inside him ratchets up another level.

A man in a very smart suit, _definitely_ not Lidl, steps into the foyer. His cool eyes sweep over the group, flicking back to settle on Martin. Martin tries very hard to look 23.

The interviewer steps out, scowling at his clipboard. “Smith,” he calls, and another of the candidates stands up.

He walks forward, sweating, and almost bumps into the smartly-dressed man. He raises an arched eyebrow, and the candidate visibly baulks.

“Sorry,” he says, and the interviewer’s head snaps up.

“Mr. Bouchard,” the interviewer says, spine snapping straight. “I didn’t realise you’d be-“ 

“Not to worry,” Mr. Bouchard says, and his voice is very smooth. He smiles, and the interviewer starts breathing again. “I just thought I’d come and take a look at the candidates.”

The interviewer glances over them, gestures. “Well, most of them are here, I was just going to-“

Mr. Bouchard steps forward, and his eyes snap to Martin. “What’s your name?” he asks.

Martin, stupidly, looks at the guy sitting next to him. The guy is staring right back at him, eyes flicking over him with twisted lips.

“Yes, you,” Mr. Bouchard says, amused. “What’s your name?”

“M-M-“ Martin says. He _hates_ it when he stutters. “Martin,” he manages, “Martin Blackwood.”

Mr. Bouchard smiles. “Can I have a quick chat with you, Martin?”

Oh god. Martin is going to die in prison. “Of course,” his mouth says without his permission.

Mr. Bouchard leads him out of the gaggle of candidates, far enough away that they won’t be able to eavesdrop. Though several are clearly trying, shooting Martin dirty looks like he’s _lucky_ to be singled out. Martin tries not to focus on them. He tries to hard not to focus on them that he completely misses the first half of Mr. Bouchard’s sentence.

“-an opportunity like this.” Mr. Bouchard finishes with, and raises his eyebrows at Martin.

“Sorry,” Martin says, panicking. “I didn’t- What was that?”

Mr. Bouchard looks at him evenly. “Do you have much research experience, Martin?” he asks.

Martin has prepared an answer to this. “I have a Masters in Parapsychology,” he squeaks.

Mr. Bouchard hums to himself. Martin has absolutely no idea if he believes the lie.

“It was from Sussex,” Martin improvises, “My supervisor was kind of- not very helpful, but I managed to-“

Mr. Bouchard holds up a hand, and Martin stops talking. He’s smiling again. “Do you have any close family?” he asks.

Martin swallows. “My mum.”

Mr. Bouchard’s eyes flick over him, up and down. “Hm.” He stays silent for a moment, considering something. Martin’s heart pounds. “Well,” Mr. Bouchard says, “I’m not sure this position is… a good fit. For you.”

Martin feels his face fall.

“But,” Mr. Bouchard says, eyes creasing, “There may be a position in our Library. I’ll see what I can find.”

Martin’s eyes widen. “You’ll-“ He- he’s not going to prison? “Oh, thank you!” he says, “I’ll- I’ll work _really_ hard, I’ll learn whatever- whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it, thank you.”

Mr. Bouchard waves a hand, dismissing Martin’s thanks like he hasn’t just- given him a way out. “It’s nothing,” he says. “But maybe…” His eyes look over Martin again, up and down. Sizing him up. “Maybe I could use a favour from you. In the future, at some point.”

“Whatever you want,” Martin repeats, fervently. Mr. Bouchard’s eyes gleam. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elias: i am hiring this 17 year old without qualifications for entirely innocent reasons. there is no Planning going on here. :) 
> 
> ...ok so i know this is really late but these are fun warm-ups ok and i didn't want to leave it unfinished! there may well be a couple more coming to fill out the set.


	2. Treating Injuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8/25 Tuesday  
> Treating / Distracting From Injuries ♢ Confession ♢ Fear
> 
> TW: Blood, Description of wound, Jon being a dumbass.

“Jon?”

Jon startles badly, glasses slipping down his nose. Martin hasn’t seen him out of his office for… well, for ages. “Martin,” Jon says, turning. He has a tea towel bunched up against his elbow. There’s a large red stain in the centre of it.

“Are you _bleeding?_ ” Martin asks, eyes fixed on the red splotch.

Jon looks down at his own elbow, then back up at Martin. “Um. Yes. Incident with…” His eyes flick around the kitchen, settling on the cheap plastic toaster. “A bread… knife.”

Martin sets his empty mug on the countertop. “You are a _really_ bad liar.” He reaches out to take Jon’s arm, pulling the tea towel away. The cloth sticks against something, pulling, and Jon hisses. “Sorry, sorry,” Martin mutters. There’s a cut, right in the crook of Jon’s elbow, where his skin is a slightly lighter brown. It isn’t long, but it looks deep. “You need stitches.”

“Oh, I doubt it’s-“

Martin moves Jon’s arm back into place, giving the tea towel a gentle pat. “A&E. C’mon, let’s get your coat.”

“I _really_ don’t think-“ Jon says as Martin steers him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

“It’s an afternoon away from work, Jon, it’s not going to kill you,” Martin tells him, giving him a little push towards the door. He walks back into the Assistant’s Office, grabbing his jacket.

Tim looks up from his phone. He doesn’t even bother to turn the sound off these days. “Headed off early?” he asks.

Martin gives him a tight smile. “Jon got stabbed or something. Taking him to A&E.”

Tim rolls his eyes, turns back to his phone. “Fair enough. He explain anything?”

Martin snorts. “What do you think?”

“Worst fucking boss,” Tim sighs. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Martin says, heading back out.

Jon’s hovering by the door to the Archives, just where Martin left him. He doesn’t have a coat, or his cane, or- anything. At least he isn’t back in his office.

“Ready to go?” Martin asks him, knowing he isn’t.

“I don’t need A&E,” Jon says, scowling. It’s cute, somehow. “It’s tiny, I just slipped when I was cutting a bagel in half.”

“Better,” Martin tells him. “Would be more convincing if you ever actually ate. Also, bagels don’t fit in the Archives toaster. Where’s your cane?”

Jon’s scowl deepens. “I don’t need a-“

“Yes you do. Doctor said so.” Martin pauses. “Look. You got stabbed, or cut yourself, or- got a papercut, or- Whatever. I don’t actually care. You want to hide things? You don’t trust us? That’s-“ Martin bites down on the word _fine._ It’s not fine, how Jon’s retreating into himself. He’s- _scared,_ these days, watching all of them like a hawk, hissing into his stupid tape recorders, jumping at shadows. Not sleeping. Not eating. It’s- not fine. Martin takes a breath, centres himself. Redirects. “You need stitches,” he says, and makes his voice firm. “We’re going to A&E.”

Jon looks away. “Fine,” he says, and grabs his coat.


	3. Sickfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8/26 Wednesday Sickfic ♢ Misunderstanding ♢ Overwhelmed

“Morning!” Georgie says brightly, rapping on the door to her spare room. It’s eight in the morning, and Jon isn’t hunched on the couch surrounded by papers. She’s guessing he been up all night making a conspiracy theory board, one of the ones with red string and wild scrawled notes that say BIGFOOT??, and she really wants to see it. And take pictures.

Jon hasn’t answered the door. She knocks again. The Admiral brushes against her leg, and she looks down. “I have the cat,” she tells Jon through the door, bending down. She scoops the Admiral up by his armpits, swinging him gently back and forth. “Good morning, stinky boy,” she coos at him, cuddling him close to her chest. He butts his head against her chin, purring. “Stinky kitty. You’re a stinky kitty, aren’t you? Yes you are. Yes-“

The door opens. Jon’s leaning bodily against the frame, eyes half lidded. “The Admiral isn’t stinky,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Georgie tells him, and it’s true. Jon’s skin is all ashy, hair a mess. His head is resting against the doorframe, like he can’t even hold it up properly. He isn’t even wearing a top. Georgie knows how self-conscious Jon is, how he hates being seen. She frowns. The Admiral lifts his head, meowing at Jon.

“Thanks,” Jon says, voice still not really rising above a loud whisper. He tries to glare at her, but his eyes still aren’t really open, so it doesn’t work very well. This is more than an all-nighter. She’s pretty sure that’s sleep in his eyes, so- he hadn’t even got up? That’s… unusual.

“Have you been skipping meals again?” she asks him. “Jon, you shouldn’t-“

“I’ve been eating,” Jon says, rubbing at his eyes. “Been sleeping, even. Woke up feeling…” He searches for a word, face screwing up. “Bad,” he settles on.

Georgie hums in sympathy. “Is it…” She drops her voice low. “Y’know, super manly bleeding time?” They always used to sync up, back when they were dating, and Georgie started yesterday, so it would make sense-

Jon actually opens his eyes, lifting his head. “What- No, that- I’ve been on hormones for- it shouldn’t be that,” he says. He crosses his arms over his abdomen, uncomfortable. “This is- different.”

“Okay, okay, just checking,” Georgie says, pacifying. “Go lie back down, I’ll bring you some tea.” The Admiral pushes a paw against her mouth, trying to escape. She holds him out to Jon. “Here. Cat always helps.”

Jon’s hands come up, gently lifting the Admiral from her. “Hello there,” he says, voice going soft. He hooks the cat over his shoulder, turning his face into the thick orange fur. The Admiral rubs against his forehead, purring like a motorbike. “Thanks,” he tells her, muffled, and retreats back into his room.

Georgie makes him tea. She does some toast too, lots of butter and a little bit of Marmite, because, knowing Jon, ‘I’ve been eating’ means that he had, like, a crumpet for dinner. Jon’s a disaster. This time she doesn’t bother to knock, pushing the door handle down with her foot. “Brekkie’s up,” she tells the lump of blankets on the bed.

Jon’s head emerges. He props himself up against a pillow, the Admiral curled up in a ball against his hip, and gives her a shaky smile.

Georgie hands him the tea, and he cups it with his hands. “It’ll be hot,” she warns him, setting the plate of toast on top of his boring research book on the side table.

Jon blows on the tea. His breath catches, and it turns into a cough. The mug jerks in his hands, almost spilling, and Georgie swoops in, taking it away. “Hey,” she says, putting the mug on the side-table. “Can’t even hold tea, now?”

“S-Sorry,” Jon croaks, and his voice sounds fucking horrible. His hands fall to his sides, curled in weakly. His head is tipped back against the headboard.

Georgie lifts the tea to her lips, taking a sip. Jon doesn’t even glare at her for stealing his tea. Doesn’t even notice, seems like. She purses her lips.

“I’m going to make you some lemon-ginger tea for your throat,” she tells him. “You-“ she glances around, grabs Jon’s phone and presses it into his hand. His headphones- cheap crappy things- are on the side table. “Listen to a podcast or something.”

“Hear there’s a good one about ghosts,” Jon croaks, cracking an eyelid open, trying a smile again.

“Damn right there is,” Georgie tells Jon. She reaches out, hand hovering over his shoulder. The blanket is pooled in his lap. He still hasn’t put a top on. Scars frame his chest, ones she knew about and new ones. Divots, like the one on his cheek. They’re all over him, now she’s looking. His ribs stand out against his skin.

Jon hasn’t told her much about his job. About why he’s here. He gets nightmares. Talks in his sleep, tells people to run. Someone called Martin, mostly. And then there’s the other dreams, the ones where he doesn’t move at all, but wakes up shaking all over. He had one of those on the couch, when they were watching a documentary. Georgie had never been gladder for her student counsellor training. Breathing exercises helped. Until he fell back asleep, and it all happened over again. 

She puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “Feel better,” she orders him.

He grumbles some response, half-asleep.

Georgie stands, running a hand across the Admiral’s back as she goes. He lifts his head, yawning wide. He makes a ‘mrrp?’ sound. “You take care of him, stinky,” she tells the cat. The Admiral slow-blinks, and puts his head down again.

Georgie goes and makes more tea.

The next day, a letter arrives for Jon from the Magnus Institute. It has a statement inside. Jon reads it, and the bags under his eyes disappear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we stan one (1) NOT STINKY boy. miss barker you are WRONG. 
> 
> Yes, Jon is trans here! Hope that came off well, first time writing anything that deals directly with this headcanon.


	4. Touch-Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8/27 Thursday Touch-starved ♢ Sharp ♢ Fragile

Jon lets go of Martin’s hand as they go through the ticket barriers at Kings Cross. It’s- logical. The barriers only let one person through at a time. Jon feeds his ticket in, takes it from the machine. The little doors open. He walks through. He turns on the other side, giving Martin a little smile.

Martin looks down at his hand. He’s holding his ticket. Jon gave it to him. He just needs to- go through the barrier. He can- He’s done this literally _hundreds_ of times. It’s- He can do this without Jon holding his bloody hand.

It’s just, Jon hasn’t let go since they walked out of the Lonely, and, he can’t help but feel like he’s all alone again, Jon’s left again, and that’s so stupid, he’s right on the other side of the bloody ticket barriers, but it’s all he can think about, how there’s no one next to him, and-

The woman behind him clears her throat. Martin flinches at the sound. He steps forward, fumbling. He puts the ticket in the wrong way around, and the machine spits it back out. His hands are shaking. He takes the ticket back, turns it around. It slides in, and Martin walks forward, relief washing through him, and bumps right into the doors. He forgot to take the ticket from the top. The woman behind him has gone through the next machine, is rolling her eyes. Martin turns around, takes the ticket. The doors open, and he turns back, stumbles through. His eyes are wet. God, he can’t even get through the barriers, he’s such a-

“Hey,” Jon says, stepping up to meet him. “You alright?” His voice is all soft. Careful. He’s been talking to Martin like that, soft, like he needs to be coaxed, and Martin thinks he should be annoyed by it, but actually if anyone spoke to him harshly right now he’d probably shake to pieces. Or just- slip back into the mist. It’s following him. Cold on the back of his neck. It would be so _easy_ to _-_

Jon reaches out, folds his hands over Martin’s. They’re warm.

Martin’s breath whooshes out of him. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He closes it, wets his lips.

Jon’s frowning. He reaches up, winds his arms around Martin’s neck. Tugs him down. “Look at me,” he whispers, and Martin does. His eyes are wide, and brown, and lovely. They flick from side to side, scanning Martin’s face. Martin doesn’t know what he’s seeing. Martin lets his head fall forward a little, just enough so their foreheads touch, the edge of Jon’s glasses poking him. It settles him, like the tension is bleeding out of him through all their points of contact.

“Better?” Jon asks after a minute, still careful.

Martin takes a breath in. “Better,” he tells Jon. He lifts his head, aching at the loss. “We need to catch the train.”

Jon harrumphs. “Sod the train,” he mutters.

Martin smiles, raises his eyebrows. “Look at you,” he teases, dropping his arm from Jon’s back.

Jon carefully pulls away, keeping his hand wrapped around Martin’s. “What?” he teases back, nudging his elbow into Martin’s side. “I can swear. Daisy’s been giving me lessons. Look,” he pauses, glances around. “Motherfucker.” He pronounces it very carefully, over-enunciating.

Martin laughs, surprising himself with the force of it. His fingers curl around Jon’s, settling in. “Very impressive,” he tells Jon.

Jon smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners. An announcement starts, and Martin catches the word Edinburgh. Jon looks up.

“C’mon,” Jon says, swinging their hands between them. “Platform 3.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin, dont feel bad, everything breaks down on british rail <3


End file.
